


purpose

by green_piggy



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, References to Depression, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Acceptance, Self-Harm, basically teenage mòrag does not have her shit together at All, inhales, mild but it's there!, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25637182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_piggy/pseuds/green_piggy
Summary: “My name is Mòrag Ladair,” Mòrag said, her throat dry and fingers numb. She may very well have been trembling. She took off her helmet and held it in front of her, giving a deep bow. “I am the current Special Inquisitor, and, as of now, your new Driver.”“Ah. I see.” Brighid tilted her head and gave Mòrag a secretive little smile. “Well, then, Lady Mòrag.” She rested a hand over her Core Crystal, a beautiful wisp of blue, and bowed even deeper than Mòrag had, her head almost brushing the carpet underneath them. “My name is Brighid. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”--Mòrag resonates with Brighid, the Jewel of Mor Ardain. What follows after is a lesson in self-care, attempting to discover the meaning of her existence, and the forging of an unbreakable bond.
Relationships: Kagutsuchi | Brighid & Meleph | Mòrag Ladair
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	purpose

**Author's Note:**

> me, internally: mòrag is such a fascinating character and may not get much development but she doesn’t need it honestly. she’s torn between her head and her heart constantly. she genuinely loves her country and her people and is proud to serve them, but you can tell that she is tired and hugely envious of the people around her for having the freedom to do what they want and to follow their heart, and how desperately she wishes to do the same. over the course of the game she learns how to open up and loosen up, and to simply be herself and to follow her heart and do what she wishes. she embraces both masculine (such as her appearance and mannerisms) and feminine traits (using skincare and make-up) and will tell anyone who doesn’t accept her for her to piss right off (and is absolutely genderfluid if she was in our society). she has many endearing personality traits, such as her awkwardness with making jokes and how competitive she is over anything and everything. yet, she is fiercely loyal to those she loves, and will protect them no matter what and tries to be a guiding figure for them, when the reality is that they help and guide her just as much. while everyone else in the main party has some sort of superpower, mòrag is simply very tired, very fast, and very lesbian
> 
> me, externally: mòrag Hot
> 
> i know that people have absolutely written mòrag and brighid meeting but i haven’t and as a famous picture once said: HOLY SHIT TWO CAKES
> 
> anyway this 11k monster was inspired by 1 (one) off-hand comment mòrag made at the end of the game. hurray! i've had this done and proofread for weeks i just. couldn't come up with a title. as is probably apparent.
> 
> hope you enjoy~ if you want background music [here you go!](https://youtu.be/LHM99rYfnh8)

Today, Mòrag was to become the Special Inquisitor.

Today, she was to finally find the purpose of her life.

She was not nervous about the ceremony of becoming the Special Inquisitor itself - Architect knew that she had sat through enough of those tedious matters - but rather by what came after it. She would have to resonate with Brighid, the Jewel, and she had no control over whether or not she would succeed.

Of course, as many precautions as possible had been taken. Mòrag had had no issue resonating with Common Core Crystals, but all of those had been cleansed and provided by the Praetorium. Although she held many suspicions about them, there was no denying that cleansing _did_ significantly increase the success rate of resonance.

However, as a royal Blade passed down through the generations, Brighid was one of the very few remaining Blades in existence who had never been cleansed. There were many stories passed down of previous rulers who had had no issue with ordinary Core Crystals, but had died attempting to resonate with Brighid. What reason existed for Mòrag being any different from the rest of them?

Then again… what reason would she have for being the same as the rest of them? There was no point in overthinking. She would either succeed or fail, and she could not control the outcome.

...Somehow, that thought did naught to comfort her..

Her bedroom door creaked open. Mòrag turned around from where she had been gazing out of the window.

“Ah…”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Niall winced. “But…”

“No buts.” Architect, how had he even _gotten_ this far without a single guard stopping him? He was barely six years old, for crying out loud.

But Niall only stood there, with his lip wobbling and eyes watering, hand on the door. Sighing, Mòrag marched over to him and scooped him up in her arms with an ease born from experience. She rested one hand on his back and the other underneath him so that he wouldn’t fall.

It wouldn’t be long before he grew too tall for her to continue to coddle him like this. The thought made her frown.

“We’re not in Gormott any longer,” she chided. “You’re the emperor, Niall. We… can’t play at being children.”

“But we _are_ children!” he huffed.

Mòrag sighed.

_“You_ are,” she corrected gently. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been… childish. Not when she’d been training for so long. Niall had only been officially assigned as Emperor for two years, but, _Architect,_ those had felt like the longest two years of Mòrag’s life. Even before that, she’d been more at home doing training regimes than at their house in Gormott. “And you should be allowed to be one, yes, but…”

“You should too.”

“Perhaps.” Mòrag sighed. “But I _am_ officially an adult now. That is why you came here, is it not?”

“Oh - yes!” Just like that, his mood instantly improved. He beamed up at her with a smile that could melt ice. “Happy birthday, sister!”

“You _know_ I hate celebrating my birthday,” she murmured. When his face fell, though, she couldn’t resist giving him a gentle flick on his forehead. “But… thank you.”

He giggled.

"You _must_ get back to your own room," Mòrag said. She bent down until his feet wiggled against the ground, unwilling to release himself. "Ni - Your Majesty, _please._ I need to get ready for the ceremony. And _you_ need to be there as well."

Eventually, Niall stood on his own two feet. He gazed up at her with wide eyes, nibbling on his lip. Seeing the upset on his face made her chest hurt, but...

No.

Today, she was to become the Special Inquisitor. His retainer, his sword and shield. She was, of course, already his guardian, but from today onwards it would be official. They couldn't be typical siblings. Not now, not ever.

So Mòrag forced away that naive longing in her heart to hug him tight and whisk them both away to Gormott once more. That period of their lives was over.

"...Very well," Niall whispered.

At that moment, there was the heavy clumping of steel boots slamming the ground. Mòrag glanced up from her brother to see _\- finally -_ an Ardainian guard sprinting towards them, the clang of their armour echoing through the hallway.

"Your Majesty!" came an exasperated gruff voice. "You _must_ be more careful—" They startled and stood to attention with a salute. "L-Lady Mòrag!" A beat of silence. "Er, um, Special Inquisitor Mòrag? Lady Ladair? Uh, _Special Inquisitor_ Lada—"

_"Just_ Lady Mòrag. Please. I'm not Special Inquisitor just yet."

They gave another salute. "T-thank you, Lady Mòrag!" They squatted down and cushioned Niall in the crook of their arm. He could walk himself, of course, but Architect knew that it was already dangerously close to when the ceremony was due to begin. "B-b-best of luck, Lady Mòrag!"

Mòrag crossed her arms. "I won't need luck, but thank you. The sentiment is appreciated."

They gave yet _another_ salut before closing her bedroom door. Mòrag listened to the footsteps and waited until they had faded before letting out a heavy sigh. She sank onto her bed and gripped her hands in her hair.

How could she be this _exhausted_ when she hadn't even done anything yet..?

The truth was that she didn't need to get ready. It wasn't as though she paid any attention to her appearance. A soldier needed to fight, not to be attractive.

Still, she should at least look presentable. With a hefty grunt, she pushed herself off her bed and went to the nearby window to look at herself.

Her hair was fine. Cropped a bit above her ears at the back, with only a small fringe and two parts of hair going just past her ears at the front. She peered in closer; tired brown eyes wrung deep with eyebags stared back at her. Even her skin was pallid, certainly more so than it had been while in Gormott. Still, she couldn't do anything about that. It was all part of her duty.

She brushed back some stray knotted strands of hair into some semblance of neatness, then ran her hands over her face and let out another sigh.

A knock came on her door.

“Lady Mòrag,” came a deep voice. “Are you ready?”

She didn’t think she ever would be. But what kind of answer would that be?

“I am,” she called back, doing her best to shove down the ball of steel-wool tangled in her throat.

She would be fine.

She _had_ to succeed. It was as simple as that. If - no, _when -_ she did, finally, that awful emptiness in her chest would finally be full.

* * *

The ceremony itself was not one that Mòrag paid any attention to. She attempted to do so, but despite her best efforts, all she could think about was the Core Crystal sitting on the desk behind her. When she knelt down for the final part of the event, it was as though she could feel it staring blazing daggers into the back of her neck.

Eventually, when Niall’s young yet resolute voice rang out, she lifted her head.

“You may rise,” he said. “Special Inquisitor Mòrag.”

She did that. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Around them, the members of the Senate broke into polite applause. Mòrag closed her eyes and took in a trembling breath, her hands wringing around the helm of her new helmet. It was the official symbol of her status as the Special Inquisitor, although she hadn’t summoned Brighid yet. If she didn’t, she was certain her new title would be stripped from her far quicker than it had been granted.

A life without obligations… where Mòrag didn’t have to wake up early every morning and run through the same drills and obligations…

It sounded like bliss, but also like terrifying freedom. And she could not simply sever herself from the duties she had been raised to perform since birth. Without those, just _who_ was she?

“It is now time to resonate with the Jewel,” Niall said. “Senator Roderich, if you would?”

She _needed_ to stop allowing her thoughts to drift. Roderich gave Niall a sneer that made Mòrag stiffen before he walked over to the table. He picked up the cushion that held Brighid’s Core Crystal and brought it over, stopping in front of Mòrag.

“For you, Special Inquisitor.” His attempt at a smile came off as more cruel than kind. “Whenever you are ready.”

“Ah… thank you.”

“Although, may I gently advise you to put _on_ your helmet?” he continued. “It wouldn’t do for the Special Inquisitor to not even wear part of her new uniform for the ceremony.”

Mòrag startled. She yanked the helmet onto her head and took a few blinks. It was lighter than expected, but the visor obscured much of her view. Thankfully, she was an inch or so taller than Roderich. It was easy to peer down at him from over her nose.

“...Thank you, Senator Roderich,” she said, her voice sounding far stronger than she felt. “I am ready whenever you are.”

With a grunt, Roderich got onto one knee and held the cushion high. Mòrag swallowed down the tight lump that had reappeared yet again in her dry throat.

The entire room had fallen into an awed silence. The air above them, over the glass windows that consisted of the throne room’s ceiling, filtered in sunlight through sickly yellow clouds. The infamous geothermal haze that had been occuring more and more in recent years was also present, little clogs of purple and black smoke that drifted through the air and obscured much of what little sunlight _did_ get through. Although the room was bright, it did not feel welcoming. An omen of sorts, perhaps.

Mòrag breathed in. _Don’t overthink this,_ she reminded herself.

The Core Crystal itself was identical to the Common Core Crystals Mòrag had previously resonated with, the Blades themselves having long since been released. An eerie kind of blue, speckled with light and dark shades, its slight glow illuminating the blood red cushion it sat on. She felt a prick of concern. How did they know for _certain_ that this was Brighid’s Core Crystal, when it had the exact same appearance as any other?

...No, that wasn’t for her to speculate over. If Mòrag did not summon Brighid from this core, that was not her fault, but of those whose duty it was to protect it.

A slight cough came from Roderich. Niall’s eyes were wide and waiting.

Before doubt could consume her, Mòrag reached forward, armour shifting, and held out her hand over the Core Crystal. She could feel its warmth even through her glove.

_You’ve done this before,_ she reminded herself. _It will be just fine._

The alternative was unacceptable to even think about.

She took the Core Crystal into the palm of her hand and watched it begin to glow. It trembled, pulsing waves of brilliant blue. She could _feel_ the ether rushing into her body, threatening to overwhelm her, brimming with life and power and _danger_ and—

She clenched her fist tighter and clutched the Core Crystal against her chest. It would not control her. _She_ would control it.

It glowed with a heat so intense that it became almost white, almost burning her as strands of light danced all around her. She only held it harder.

It throbbed, again and again - and then burst with a dazzling explosion of light. She felt the ether coursing through her veins, but it felt nothing like her previous resonance attempts. Ice did not chill her blood, nor did water threaten to drown her.

All she felt was all-consuming _flames._

The Core Crystal dissipated in her hand, glowing orbs of ether that vanished into the unknown. A figure of glowing light, slightly taller than she was, appeared in front of her.

The entire chamber held their breath. As the light faded, Mòrag felt her own breath knocked clean out of her lungs.

None of the official records did the woman standing in front of Mòrag any form of justice.

A woman of flame, the writings would claim, whose skill with words was as deadly as her skill in combat. Countless portraits captured her in the midst of battle with her whipswords dancing around her, or standing at the current ruler’s side, utterly solemn. She kept a journal - one of many Blades to do so, but one of very few to succeed, her records passed down from one rebirth to the next.

However, no story or painting or journal entry captured the little parts of her that Mòrag immediately saw. The twinkle of amusement in her eyes, even though she had them shut and seemed to have no intention of opening them. They were so _expressive._ Not to mention the sheer _confidence_ that emitted from her, from the gentle flames burning as buns on either side of her head, to the firm click of her heels as she stepped forward. Her very posture, her very _existence,_ brought with her a kind of self-assured confidence that Mòrag could only be envious of. Here was someone who knew her purpose in life. Here was someone who knew _exactly_ what she was.

The light from the summoning faded away, leaving in its wake a gaggle of silenced Senators and officials. Soon, many of the eyes drifted from Brighid to Mòrag.

She had succeeded in summoning the Jewel. But now that she was standing in front of her, with such _pride,_ Mòrag did not think that she was worthy. Not for a single second.

Still. She was a Driver now. She very well could not abandon the Blade which she had just resonated with, even if all she wanted to do was duck underneath her new helmet and pretend that she didn’t exist.

She cleared her throat.

“My name is Mòrag Ladair,” Mòrag said, her throat dry and fingers numb. She may very well have been trembling. She took off her helmet and held it in front of her, giving a deep bow. “I am the current Special Inquisitor, and, as of now, your new Driver.”

“Ah. I see.” Brighid tilted her head and gave Mòrag a secretive little smile. “Well, then, Lady Mòrag.” She rested a hand over her Core Crystal, a beautiful wisp of blue, and bowed even deeper than Mòrag had, her head almost brushing the carpet underneath them. “My name is Brighid. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

* * *

Mòrag and Brighid were both dismissed for the rest of the day. Take time to get familiar with your Blade, she had been told, as if Mòrag wasn’t now bonded to Brighid for the rest of her days. Still, an order was an order, no matter how much Mòrag disagreed with it, and she could hardly say no to the Emperor.

Before leaving Hardhaigh Palace, however, Mòrag had made sure to obtain Brighid’s journal from the treasury and to give it to her. Brighid had been surprised, but had given Mòrag a grateful smile before taking it from her hands. She now had it tucked underneath her arm as they left the palace; Mòrag had also left her hat in her bedroom so that she wouldn’t attract unwanted attention. Today had been exhausting enough thus far.

It was only early afternoon. The geothermal haze from earlier had lifted, giving way to the glorious sun beating down on everyone underneath it. The chimneys of countless factories were puffing out constant streams of smog on the horizon, stretching beyond what Mòrag could see. Seeing them made her heart both glow with pride and with shame; Mor Ardain would be dying even if they weren’t utilising its increasing heat for their own technologies, but to bear witness to such shameful exploitation and to have an active hand in it… such blatant disregard for the environment was sickening to see. Would Gormott become like this, too, if Mor Ardain refused to relinquish its clutch on their land? Yet they _needed_ that land. Mor Ardain needed its soil and crops. Where did you draw the line? How could you satisfy both Mor Ardain and Gormott? Was it even possible? And none of that was even _mentioning_ the increasing tensions with Uraya as of late… if events were to escalate any further...

“A gold for your thoughts, Lady Mòrag?”

“Ah…” Mòrag startled and glanced over to the voice’s source. Brighid smiled back at her, her face as empty and mysterious as it had been the entire time so far, apart from that soft smile when Mòrag had handed her her diary. “Just - thinking.” Mòrag crossed her arms and gazed away, hands resting under each arm. “It is nothing for you to be concerned about.”

“Hmm… if you insist.” Brighid leaned ever-so-slightly on one hip, stretching out her arm. “Where do we go from here?”

“We take the right path from Nharil Central Plaza, and we’ll arrive at Ayvil Shopping District.” Mòrag looked at her. “I’m… admittedly, I’m not _certain_ if Blades require substance or not, but…”

“I wouldn’t say no to a meal, that’s for certain.” That damned smile again. It always felt as though Brighid was constantly mocking Mòrag, for any number of reasons that she couldn’t interpret or understand. She _knew_ that she was most likely overthinking it, as she did with most matters, but… “And for future reference? We require food and drink and rest, the same as any human.”

“Ah… duly noted. Thank you.” Mòrag fought the urge to hide her face. Suddenly, she was acutely missing her helmet. It may have affected her vision, but it also ensured that others couldn’t see _her_ face, and there was a certain comfort to be found in that. Without it, she felt exposed despite only having just obtained it. “Let’s go and see what wares are available. If you have no objections?”

“Please, lead the way.”

Compared to the bustling markets of Torigoth, where stalls overflowing with foodstuffs would line the main street and spill out onto the many sideroads, Alba Cavanich’s own market was lacking. There were barely enough shops to even line the small street, and certainly precious little in the way of food. Still, Mòrag, lured by that sweet, exquisite fragrance, found herself drifting to Bassani Butchers.

“Ah - Lady Mòrag! Good afternoon.” The shop owner - she had never learnt her name, and by now, it would be _far_ too awkward to ask - gave her a knowing smile. “The usual, I suppose?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“The usual?” Brighid asked.

“We just finished makin’ them, actually.” She brought out a long string of Quoteletta. The mere scent of _heaven_ coming from it.... It took holding back every last one of Mòrag’s taste buds to not begin to drool over it there and then. “A fresh batch of Quoteletta for you! Does your lady friend want one as well?”

Brighid was staring at the meat as if it had personally slayed each and every single one of her loved ones in front of her. “I… um…”

The woman burst out laughing. “Aye, can’t blame you! It’s certainly an… _acquired_ taste, to put it kindly. My son - Sketach, bless him - refuses to touch it, and he’ll be _runnin’_ this place once he’s of age.”

“Dare I ask what it is even _made_ from?” Brighid asked.

_“I_ dare say that it’s better you don’t know.”

“I-it is _delicious!”_ Mòrag stammered defensively. “Soothing to the soul _and_ inexpensive. I fail to see what all the fuss is about.”

“Well. A fair amount of people actually _do_ seem to like it, for whatever strange reason.” Laughing, she took the money Mòrag thrusted at her. “Especially you, Lady Mòrag. Enjoy your food, now! Sure there’s nothing that your friend would like?”

“I am quite certain,” immediately came Brighid’s cool voice. “But I thank you for your service.”

“As do I.” Mòrag gave a small bow. “You have my thanks. I’ll be certain to return soon.”

“Ah - you’re welcome! Just stay away from Kascha! Now _that’s_ some gross stuff!” the shopkeeper called as they began to walk away.

“I suppose you wouldn’t know what kind of food you _do_ enjoy,” Mòrag said, unable to stop a small amount of sarcasm from dripping into her words. She winced as soon as they came out; that had always been an unfortunate habit of hers, no matter how she attempted to curb it.

But Brighid didn’t scowl or frown at her. If anything, she looked amused. It was difficult to read her expressions when her eyes never opened, but her lips were smiling. “I don’t, alas.” As she said that, though, Mòrag watched her gaze slide towards the few crates cumbered together to form the seafood stall.

“Hmm…” Mòrag dangled her Quoteletta from a finger, feeling the thin string cut into her skin through her glove. “Go find us a table ahead. I will catch up to you.”

Brighid gave her an inscrutable look, but eventually nodded and left, heels clicking. Mòrag watched her for a few seconds, in particular gazing with quiet awe at the sheer _confidence_ she carried herself with, before shaking her head.

It didn’t take her long to get what she needed. Satisfied, she went to find Brighid.

Even with the large crowd of people milling about and chatting, Brighid was far from difficult to find. Having blazing hair that was both blue and purple tended to have that kind of effect. She was sitting at one of the tables scattered around Salter Sweets, her journal flicked open in front of her, long hair billowing out behind her. She truly was beautiful. Even Mòrag, who did not care for such things, could admit that.

“For you,” she said when she stood next to Brighid.

“Oh?” Brighid looked up, head tilted - and Mòrag swore she saw the corners of her eyes wrinkle. “Did you find something?”

“Indeed I did.” Mòrag held out the couple of skewers of fish she had in her right hand. “Cloud Sea Crab Sticks. They are quite popular in Alba Cavanich. I’ve never quite understood the appeal myself, but…” She gave a tentative smile. “Well. I’ve been told I have somewhat _questionable_ taste buds.”

That drew a quiet, amused chuckle from Brighid. “I’m glad you’re willing to admit to your flaws.” She reached a hand forward. “I must thank you, Lady Mòrag.”

Brighid’s hands were one of the most fascinating parts of her appearance. They appeared to be crystalised flames, especially with how they flickered and fanned out as they approached her shoulders. If Mòrag peered closely enough, especially around her lower arm, she could see the fire ether fuming like smoke inside. When her hand brushed Mòrag’s to take the Cloud Sea Crab Sticks, it had a pleasant warmth to it. Cooler than she had expected, but still hotter than the average human’s.

...What an _interesting_ woman.

“Please.” Mòrag sat down on the stool opposite of Brighid and took one of the empty plates already on the table. She laid out her Quoteletta on top and began to tug the string out of the meat. It was cooked so that the outside was hard and firm, while the inside remained soft and delicate; perfect for string removal, and a delight to taste. “Just… Mòrag. I’ve had quite enough of titles to last me a lifetime.”

“Well, it would be improper of me to _not_ refer to you as ‘Lady’, at the very least.” Brighid teased. “But… very well. When it is only the two of us, I will not use titles.”

“An acceptable compromise.”

They ate their meal in silence, but it was a companionable one. Sneaking a glance at Brighid as she finished off her first stick, Mòrag allowed a feeling she so rarely tolerated to rise in her chest:

Hope.

* * *

Hope, however, was a brittle, fragile thing, and Mòrag should have known better than to allow it to spring forth.

“Mòrag,” came Brighid’s firm voice. “You must _rest.”_

“I haven’t _time_ to,” she seethed. Wincing, she brought a hand to her aching head and hissed a shaking breath through clenched teeth. Her jaw felt ready to snap. Her head was _burning._ But this was what she had signed up for, was it not? She was the Special Inquisitor. What kind of laughing stock would she become if she couldn’t even handle this much?

“I have Titan warship manuals to read through. There is debate over whether or not we should send soldiers to Temperantia to survey the land. Rebellions in Gormott are becoming more frequent and are threatening the townsfolk. And the upcoming _war_ with Uraya…”

“We’re at war?” Brighid asked gently. She frowned, the flames of her hair magnifying the shadows draped over her face. In this lighting, her appearance wasn’t as flawless and magnefic as it was in daylight. She looked tired. Worn-out. How must _Mòrag_ look (not that she cared), if Brighid, as beautiful as she was, looked so stressed? “The last I had heard, it was escalating tensions.”

“A declaration of war has been made,” Mòrag said. “So, as you can see, I can hardly rest. That is what the grave is for.”

_“Mòrag.”_ Brighid’s hand rested on the pile of papers Mòrag had been looking over. “You look ready to pass out. Please… even if only for a few minutes.”

“I cannot—”

“I am not asking you.”

Mòrag brought both hands to her hair, drawing them into fists that she tugged with as hard as she could. Somehow, it brought a sick sense of satisfaction. This? _This_ was something that she could control. She pulled again—

Warm hands gripped both of hers. _“Enough!_ Mòrag, _please!”_

The open _desperation_ in Brighid’s voice, usually so calm, made her pause. That second was enough time for Brighid to work her fingers underneath Mòrag’s own and gently release them from their grasp. She didn’t let go as she lowered them down between them. Were it any other occasion, perhaps Mòrag would have been flustered or embarrassed at such intimacy. As it were, she was simply too exhausted. She felt ready to scream.

“There we go,” Brighid murmured.

“I-I am _not_ a child,” she hissed, hating, _hating,_ how her voice trembled.

“I never said you were.” A soft sigh. “Mòrag, I am your Blade. You are my Driver. We are connected. Have you forgotten this?”

“I…” Mòrag’s throat clogged up tight with guilt. All of a sudden, she wanted to reach for a bucket and vomit. “...No, I merely…”

“No matter how you may try to hide them, I can sense your feelings. I _know_ your emotions.” Brighid’s hands tightened around her own. “You are not alone. Not any longer. I… I know we have not been together for long, but we are _partners._ Please…” Brighid lowered her head. “...trust me.”

“I… I wish you didn’t,” Mòrag whispered with a hoarse voice. No one had informed her that becoming the Special Inquisitor meant that she had to have emotional closeness with another. To _talk_ about her feelings, her thoughts, her fears. Especially with somebody who she hadn’t even known until a few months ago.

But… Brighid had proven herself to be an invaluable partner, over and over again. And as caught up in her own mind as Mòrag tended to be, she wasn’t deaf. She could hear - she could _sense -_ the fear in Brighid’s own voice, the tremble in her words.

_Please do not reject me,_ she heard her say. _You are all that I have. You are all that I know._

As frightening as things were for Mòrag, at least.... At least she’d had _some_ semblance of free will. Brighid never had. Brighid - no, _all_ Blades - were born into Alrest bonded to another, their life and destiny tied to somebody they did not know. If your Driver was a vile person, someone who took glee in plundering and taking the lives of others, in inflicting pain and misery… you could not break free.

Blades may have been able to live for most of eternity, but to spend all of that time shackled to another…

Then again, was Mòrag really so different? Here she was, the chains of duty yanked tight around her limbs, unable to imagine a life outside of serving Mor Ardain.

She loved her role. She did, truly, sincerely and wholly.

But she'd been so certain that becoming the Special Inquisitor would be her purpose in life. To protect and to serve her country. That it would fill the strange, gaping void inside of her, that emptiness that always threatened to consume her when she thought too much on it.

There were, in her opinion, few things more terrifying than the great unknown. Then to look at the boundless sky, beyond the Cloud Sea, and to not be able to understand why she was here. Why she had been born _now,_ and not at any other point in history, and what awaited after she died and her spirit (apparently) returned to the great stream of ether. Would she become nothing? Really, would she have ever existed?

That thought was _terrifying._ It was enough to make her knees quake and her chest constraint so tight that it was difficult to breathe. How was she the only one who seemed to struggle with this? With not knowing what was after the end? With the thought of living your entire life without ever knowing _why_ you had lived it at all? What if she fell in the line of duty and never had time to find an answer? Did such an answer even exist?

“Mòrag?” came Brighid’s gentle voice.

...Now wasn’t the time for such thoughts.

“We… will rest,” Mòrag said. Already, she felt lighter, freed of a weight that she hadn’t even realised had been drowning her. “I am sorry, Brighid. I… my woes affect you, too. My burdens are not my own to carry. They should be, but—"

“They _never_ should have been," came Brighid's resolute voice. "And I am glad to share them with you."

Well. Mòrag had no response to that.

Brighid gently guided her onto her feet, still not letting go of her hands. She only did so when she had turned Mòrag away from the stacks of papers. She leaned forward and extinguished the ether lamp over Mòrag’s desk.

Brighid’s room was only a door down from Mòrag’s own. This late at night, with the moon hanging high in the dusty sky, there were no guards outside their rooms, only at the end of the corridors. With the situation with Uraya, more and more soldiers were increasingly being redistributed to the Emperor's side. Indeed, the Senate had been debating having him awaken the other royal Blade, Aegaeon, for his own safety. He wasn’t as powerful as Brighid was, but he was still a Blade with great strength.

A hand squeezed her shoulder. Mòrag jumped.

"Stop thinking about work," Brighid soothed as she unlocked her door and pushed it open without a noise. "Even if only for a short while."

"Ah…" Mòrag came to a sudden realisation. "Wait. How did you get into my room? My door was locked!"

"Are you only realising that _now?"_ came Brighid's wry voice. "It turns out that I have rather stellar lockpicking skills. It was easy to open your door."

"Gah…" Mòrag's hand subconsciously went to rest on a hat that wasn't on her head. She'd already gotten so used to it that taking it off for bed was surreal. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Brighid, instead taking the silence as an opportunity to step in.

She’d never been inside Brighid’s room before. A person’s bedroom was their most private space after all. Architect knew that Mòrag had only allowed Brighid into her own on very rare occasions (although she _did_ have a knack of suddenly appearing in it… how Mòrag had not realised her lockpicking skills sooner, she did not know), and no one else was allowed even a glimpse when possible. It was _her_ space. Where she could be less than perfect, without duty’s crushing weight.

It was similar to her own in many ways. Her bed was pushed against the same corner of the room, although she didn’t have a pillow. The bedsheets had an odd, almost metallic-like glisten to them.

“They’re fireproof,” Brighid said, sounding amused. “So that I don’t set the sheets on fire when I sleep.”

_...Well._ When she put it like that, that made perfect sense.

“I must confess, I hadn’t realised the extent to which you had to… fireproof your possessions,” Mòrag murmured. She rested a hand under her chin. “Can you shower? Bathe?”

“I _do_ have a swimsuit,” came her reply. “But only to a small extent, truthfully. I usually burn off any bacteria or dirt.”

“You can _do_ that?”

Brighid smirked.

“Very impressive indeed.” Mòrag rested her hands behind her back as she gazed at the rest of the room. The one large difference between their rooms, and the one that caught her eye after the bed, was the vanity desk in the corner. Her own room had a similar desk, but where hers was stacked to the brim with periculous piles of papers and pens with worn nibs (all organised in her own careful manner, of course), Brighid’s instead had a large mirror and countless tiny bottles whose labels Mòrag couldn’t read in the dim lighting.

As she thought that, Brighid brought her hand to an ether lamp and set it alight. She rested it on the corner of the desk, away from most of the objects.

“Is that… _make-up?”_

“You sound surprised.”

When Mòrag glanced over to Brighid, her heart lurched, for the expression on Brighid’s face was one she had thought had finally left it for good. The look that gave absolutely nothing away, with her lips straight and thin and slight creases between her eyes.

“I mean… yes. I am.” Mòrag took a step closer. “I was unaware that you had an interest in such things.”

“Did you believe I retain this appearance _naturally?”_ Brighid walked ahead of her and sat down on the chair, her back to Mòrag. She leaned in close to the mirror while carefully pulling under her eye with a finger.

“Does it not - burn off your skin? Or evaporate?”

A hint of amusement snaked into her voice. “Mòrag, does my _face_ look like it is on fire?”

“...I, er, suppose not.”

“That answers your question, then.”

“W-well. Flammable face or not, Blades do not age, yes?” Mòrag’s hands tightened behind her back. She swallowed down her sudden nerves. “I had thought it a fair assumption to believe that…”

“To believe what?” Brighid worked her finger - she didn’t have nails, Mòrag noticed - under the lid of a bottle. After a few seconds, it pinged off with a loud _pop,_ clattering on the desk. _Elastifying Tonic,_ the little label on it cheerfully read, having clearly been scrawled on by a Nopon's tiny paw. “Blades do not age, yes, but we still show signs of fatigue, just the same as any human. Exhaustion, stress, overworking... “ Brighid looked over her shoulder right at Mòrag. “All of those can be a killer to both skin and mind. Even little things such as these can go a long way in alleviating such fatigue.”

Mòrag’s skin prickled. Finding herself suddenly defensive, she glanced away, teeth working her lip. “...You needn’t look at me when you say such things,” she eventually said, her voice weaker than she had hoped.

But Brighid only hummed. Abruptly, she stood and ran a finger down Mòrag’s lips, separating teeth from skin. Mòrag choked and felt her cheeks brighten at such _close_ contact without warning. She could feel every inch of the tiny trail Brighid’s finger had taken on her face. If Brighid noticed any of that, she didn’t say.

“...That is _exactly_ why I looked at you,” she scolded, voice rising. “Mòrag, you have many terrible habits. If I may be so blunt.”

“I-I would rather you didn’t—”

“You overwork yourself, you place _no_ worth on yourself as a person outside of your role as Special Inquisitor, you fail to take even the most _rudimentary_ care of your body or self—”

“Brighid, _please—”_

“And I wish dearly that you would,” Brighid finished quietly. Her hand - the same one that had touched Mòrag’s mouth - cupped her cheek ever so tenderly. “I say this not as your Blade, but… as your friend.”

“I…” Mòrag twisted her head away, looking down, swallowing down all emotions behind that swelling dam in her heart. “It’s not as though I… I _intend_ to, I just… my role is as Special Inquisitor.” She shook her head. “My appearance should not matter. I keep on top of combat training—”

“We’ve trained together very little,” came Brighid’s gentle interruption. There was a hint of disappointment in her voice. Mòrag’s chest clenched. Architect, if she could allow Brighid to be free from her, free to be _herself,_ she would.

“...Well, then, that’s yet another failure I must rectify.”

“‘Another’?” Brighid leaned forward, frowning, the bottle of Elastifying Tonic still gripped in her hand. Mòrag had the overcoming urge to hurl it at the wall. “Mòrag, you—”

“I am right!”

“No, you’re—” Brighid let out a frustrated noise between her teeth, her jaw visibly jutting out. “You need to _relax,_ Mòrag. May I suggest some of the make-up products I use—”

The dam burst.

“I don’t need _make-up_ or anything like that!” Mòrag spat. “I’ve never needed it before, and I certainly don’t now! It may very well work for you, but that doesn’t allow you to thrust it upon me!" She threw her arm out. "Am I not enough of a woman, is that it? Because my hair is short and I am tall and I loathe skirts and dresses and I do not care for such _frivolous_ things?” She found her voice growing louder, like there was molten lava bubbling out of her and she couldn’t stop. All of these things she kept deep, deep inside, forgetting that even diamond eventually exploded when compressed beyond its limits. “Would you tell me all of this drivel - this _shite -_ if I were a man!?”

But Brighid didn’t even skip a beat before replying: “Of course I would,” she said. “I feel that self-care is important, regardless of gender. Taking care of yourself should come first and foremost.”

“You’re the _Jewel_ of Mor Ardain!” Mòrag spat. “And yet you are as unpatriotic as they come! Putting _yourself_ before country! You’d rather pretty yourself up than train!”

Brighid’s mouth thinned. “There is a line between vanity and self-care, _thank you.”_

“One that you have long since brazenly crossed!”

“What use am I to Mor Ardain if I am not at my best condition? If I cannot do my best work due to being unable to accept myself?” Finally, Brighid put down her bottle. She turned to face Mòrag and—

For a moment, for less than a single second, her eyes were open. Narrow slits of amethyst that slid shut again before Mòrag could say anything.

_"Lady_ Mòrag." Never before had that title felt so sarcastic. Despite her element, Mòrag felt the air chill around them. "A word of advice. Do not project your own insecurities onto your Blade."

"Wha-!?" Mòrag spluttered. "I-I am doing no such thing!"

But Brighid tutted. "Perhaps you _are_ a child after all."

"I am _not—"_

"I brought you in here to offer you reprise, but there is only so much I can do for someone unwilling to accept any aid.”

It was in that moment that Mòrag felt the ice around her burning heart finally melt. People would ask her; why don’t you smile, Mòrag? Why don’t you yell or scream or show much passion for anything at all?

This. This was why. When she did, all she did was hurt people.

"Brighid," Mòrag croaked. She felt a stinging in her eyes she hadn't felt in years. She didn’t know if she wanted to scream or cry. How terrible a Driver - a _person_ _-_ was she, if she drove her own Blade to becoming this furious with her? Despite her element, Brighid’s anger was colder than absolute zero - and here was Mòrag, both thawed and frozen solid by it. "Brighid, _please,_ I—"

Brighid picked up a bottle from her desk and tossed it towards Mòrag without looking at her. Instead, her gaze watched Mòrag in the mirror’s reflection as she scrambled to catch it. "Good _night,_ Lady Mòrag. I will see you tomorrow. If you insist on destroying yourself, who am I to stop you?”

"I…" Mòrag forced away both the lump in her throat and the burn in her eyes. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror - her shaking body, her pale, exhausted face, her shining eyes - she tore her gaze away, struck by self-hatred so severe that she wanted to vomit. It was only when that urge had passed that she dared to speak again. The bottle in her hand was scalding. "...Good night, Brighid."

There was no point in apologies. Not when any would fall on deaf ears.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind her. Mòrag did not stop moving, did not allow herself to think, did not allow herself to do anything at all, not until she was in her own room with the door firmly locked and the ether lamp flicked back on.

As soon it was, she clenched her fist so tight that the bottle dug into her skin. For a second, she raised her hand with a cry, ready to throw it—

Only to break herself off with a hiss of breath. She closed her eyes and breathed in, out, until her arm fell limp at her side like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

She perched on the edge of her bed with a heavy sigh, so heavy that it sounded as though it could have come from Mor Ardain itself. Her arms dangled over her knees, legs spread wide.

Time passed. Mòrag did not know how much. There was not a single noise to be heard, save for her shaky breathing. The countless clouds outside did not allow a single star through on such a foggy night. Eventually, though, she lifted up the hand that still held the bottle.

It was difficult to read such tiny writing in the dim lighting, but she managed. _Freshening Gel,_ read the label, in an identical script to the one on Brighid’s Elastifying Tonic, promising that it had been _‘Made With 100% Real Nopon Sweat And Tears!’_

...Somehow, she failed to see how apparent excessive manual labour was meant to be _encouraging,_ but that was the Nopon for you. She turned the bottle over in her hand with a quiet hum. The substance inside was clear yet thick looking, speckled with little dots from something she had no hope of identifying. She took a quick glance through the list of ingredients, and only grew more and more confuddled as she read it. Sirius Anemone… Panda Pansy… what on Titan’s foot was a _Shepherd’s Purse?_

Resigning herself to never understanding the botany of Alrest, Mòrag instead worked a jagged fingernail under the lid to flick it open. Out of curiosity, she assured herself. All she would do was take a quick whiff and then leave it and go back to work. She casted a guilty eye back at the tower of paperwork that she had so hurriedly abandoned.

Yet, as soon as the scent of the gel reached her, Mòrag’s head snapped back to the bottle like a pulled elastic band suddenly released. It was _gorgeous._ There were no other words for it.

The wave of nostalgia that hit her was overwhelming. The fresh scent of flowers brought back memories of Gormott so vivid that it was as though she was reliving those days long gone. The times where she and her brother would sneak out of lessons and go to the nearby lake and play with the other children, or explore the Titan’s many crooked caves and gnarled tree branches. How they wasted many an afternoon attempting to make flower crowns for one another (Mòrag had never gotten the hang of them, her rough fingers always scattering the petals or snapping stems), or pretend fighting with fragile sticks that often left splinters in their hands.

She’d been _happy,_ back then. She’d been content. What had happened? What had changed?

Mòrag squeezed her eyes shut until her vision was no longer blurry. When she opened them again, she turned the bottle in her hand once more.

Surely, it couldn’t hurt to try a little. Granted, she hadn’t the first clue on how to use it, but…

No. _No._ She had work to do. She had a war to prepare for and a rebellion to help diffuse and countless other duties to keep her up until the early hours. She didn’t have time to waste on - on _this._ Architect knew that she had already wasted more than enough of it, stewing in her own emotions like this. She needed to work. That was her job. Her _purpose._

...Yet, she didn’t move. Her eyes remained on the bottle. All she could think of was Brighid’s open eyes, dazzling yet terrifying, her icy tone even as she had given Mòrag this bottle.

With a deep breath, Mòrag turned it upside down, resting the sprout a bit above her hand. Slowly, but steadily, the gel came leaking out, along with that divine smell.

It spilled out quicker than she could contain it; Mòrag yelped and almost dropped the bottle. She barely managed to hurriedly tip it upright in time. She gingerly placed it on the ground between her fingers and stared at the gigantic blob in her other palm.

Frowning, she brought one hand to the other and began to rub, wincing at the large _squelch_ and the oozing of gel from between the gaps of her fingers. She’d poured far too much out. Stupid, stupid, _stupid,_ she shouldn’t have been doing this—

Somewhere, somehow, Mòrag shut that part of her mind up. She deserved this much. She _did._

That little voice in her head sounded an awful lot like Brighid’s.

Once she had adequately rubbed them, she gingerly raised one hand to her cheek - and gasped at how _cold_ the gel was before pulling her hand away. It hadn’t been a _bad_ chill, though. Something about it had been oddly comforting.

With less reluctance this time, Mòrag placed skin against skin once more - and began to slowly rub the gel into her cheek. She brought up her other hand to mirror the action, soon bringing both up to her forehead and continuing there. The gel left a pleasant coolness in its wake; she could feel it seeping into her skin, working its way down the countless pores. Two fingers of each of her hand went down the side of her nose, before she finished working on her chin.

She scrubbed off the (large) amount of excessive gel with a nearby towel after giving her wrists a quick rub and then patted down her hands and face. Draping the towel over the railing on the bottom of her bed, she paused when she caught her reflection in the glass window.

For once, her immediate thought wasn’t to pull away, repulsed. Instead, she leaned forward, peering at her skin, as though expecting to see some sort of immense change from a few squirts of gel.

Nothing had changed, really. Her eyebags were still there, as dauntless and immense as ever, and the furrows between her eyebrows hadn’t faded, yet…

She _felt_ better. She felt - well. She found herself smiling at her own reflection. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done so, or if she had ever done so before.

Her gaze drifted to the desk. She _needed_ to work.

_“I say this not as your Blade, but… as your friend.”_

Her lips still felt the phantom of Brighid’s fingertip.

“Damn it…”

In the end, after simply standing there and watching the lights of Alba Cavanich, Mòrag ignored her desk entirely and crawled into bed. She fell asleep far earlier than she usually did, lured to rest by that nostalgic scent tingling her skin, and didn’t awaken once.

The next morning, when Brighid came to greet her, she smiled with wrinkling eyes, saying that Mòrag looked well-rested for the first time since they’d met. Mòrag had smiled back, her skin freed of weight, her chest light, limbs well rested. For once, she was not in pain or aching, but instead feeling as though she had passed whatever test Brighid had set for her.

* * *

The position of Special Inquisitor had, thus far, resulted with far more paperwork and far less fighting than Mòrag had anticipated. However, now with war on the near horizon, it was of the utmost priority that she refamilarise herself with the way of battle.

Few could match Mòrag in swordplay, or, indeed, with any weapon. She was not the hardest hitter, but her fleet footwork and sheer skill ensured that, time upon time again, she reigned supreme over the countless other soldiers who endlessly challenged her. There were few women within the army, and even fewer who had ascended the ranks as high and as quickly as Mòrag had. Favouritism from the royal family, soldiers would gossip, only to be proven wrong when Mòrag could disarm them and have her weapon at their neck in a matter of seconds.

However, even the finest Ardainian technology was not yet able to replicate most Blade weapons, which also applied to Brighid’s whipswords.

“You need to allow yourself to _relax,”_ Brighid said, a hint of impatience in her voice. “They are not typical swords.”

“And why, pray tell, couldn’t you simply use normal swords?” Mòrag bit out.

Whipswords, truthfully, _could_ be used just fine as average blades, but their true strength came from how - well, befitting their name - they could morph into flexible whips. But every time Mòrag attempted to do so, they didn’t obey her desires in the slightest. They would extend outwards… and then flop to the ground, useless.

Brighid said nothing. When Mòrag glanced behind her, she had her hand out, fire ether energy coursing from her palm. No hint of an expression rested on her face.

_Try again,_ she was saying. Mòrag hid her sigh. It was slightly frightening that she could already make out so much of Brighid’s thoughts through the most minute of motions - was the opposite true as well? Could Brighid understand Mòrag’s thoughts and emotions, even though she did her very best to show as little as possible?

Shaking her head, Mòrag exhaled. She thrust her arms high, willing the swords to activate—

Nothing happened.

A beat of silence, before Brighid sighed and Mòrag felt their ether connection snap. A severance from a part of her she hadn’t even been aware she’d had.

“Hand them over here,” Brighid hissed. She trotted over, heels clicking, and yanked the swords’ handles away from Mòrag’s hands before she could reply. The sheer _warmth_ of Brighid’s hands over hers was burning, even though they hadn’t been _that_ hot, and she certainly couldn’t understand why that same heat was now also in her cheeks. How _ridiculous._

“I would have handed them over if you had simply _asked.”_

“I did,” came Brighid’s brisk reply. “Goodness… I don’t know _why_ it became tradition for a Driver to use their Blade’s weapon, but at times like these, I certainly don’t approve of it.”

“‘Became’..?” Mòrag lowered her hands. “Weapons weren't always shared?”

Brighid paused. "... You're interested?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Brighid's face remained unchanging. She tilted her head ever-so-slightly and let out a small hum before speaking. "Most Drivers don't tend to focus on the _whys_ and _hows_ of their Blade's powers. They only care for the results."

"Then how can they possibly hope to work in harmony, if they do not care to learn something as fundamental as that?"

Perhaps it was her imagination, or her brain being wistful, but she swore she saw a flicker of a smile on Brighid's lips.

"...Weapon sharing became common around three hundred and fifty years ago during the Osirian War, I believe, although it's been done for as long as before the Aegis War." Brighid stretched her arm out. The whipsword in it dragged along the ground with her movement like a serprond slithering through clouds. "Prior to that, however, a Blade and Driver used their own weapons. According to my journal, the hero Addam used a greatsword, while the Aegis used her own sword, and his other Blade used weapons known as gunknives."

"Addam had more than one Blade?"

If she hadn't been certain of Brighid's smile before, she was now. "Curious, are you? He only had the two Blades, as far as I know, but…" Her smile widened. Even her eyes seemed kinder, somehow, although they remained closed. "I must admit, I hadn't expected you to be so interested. If you wish, I _could_ tell you more after training."

"Truly?” Mòrag smiled back. It felt like a terribly awkward thing on her lips. “I would very much appreciate that.”

Brighid chuckled. “You’ve got that smile in your eyes. It’s wonderful to see.”

“I have a - _what?”_

“You rarely smile with your mouth, but you always do so with your eyes.” Brighid pointed to the corner of her own, her own lips still curled upwards. Even without it, it would have been difficult to miss the quiet _joy_ emitting from her like infrared radiation.

“So, the very opposite of you?” Mòrag scoffed. “How ironic.”

“Don’t you mean _eye-ronic?”_

_“Get out.”_

Brighid gave a short laugh and then immediately covered her mouth, looking as if she hadn’t intended for the noise to slip out. It was utterly endearing.

“...Anyway.” She stretched an arm out and cocked her hip to one side, her cheeks still a little red. “How was the Freshening Gel I gave you? Have you consistently used it?”

“Oh? That?” Architect, it had been a week or so since that terrible night. Mòrag felt embarrassment flush her at having lost _control_ of herself like that in front of someone else. “...I have, actually, yes.”

Brighid tilted her head. “And?”

“I suspect I am not applying it correctly, but…” She smiled and rested a hand on her cheek. “My skin _does_ feel more clean. Refreshed.”

“True to its name, then?”

“Indeed. It’s a pleasant surprise to touch it and for it to not feel as coarse as it once did.”

The corners of Brighid’s eyes wrinkled with her widening smile. “It’s wonderful to hear that. I can help show you how to apply it tonight, if you don’t mind allowing me into your chambers.”

For most people, Mòrag would have shot them down immediately. But for _Brighid…_

“I don’t see why not.”

When Brighid beamed, Mòrag tugged down the brim of her helmet and turned her head away, hoping that she couldn’t see her face. Her entire face was blushing so intensely that she was concerned she might char the metal of her visor. “...As long as you tell me about the events of your past as well.”

“I was just about to suggest that. It sounds like a most wonderful night.”

Then Brighid threw a whipsword at her; Mòrag caught it on instinct, the fingers of her right hand curling around the rapidly-cooling handle.

“But for _now.”_ She smirked. “Let’s get a grip on these, shall we? Work hard and play hard, as the saying goes.”

“Does it, now?” But Mòrag smiled back. “But I agree.”

“Since we have two whipswords, luckily enough, I’ll try to teach you via demonstration. For example…”

* * *

Years had passed since Mòrag and Brighid’s first meeting. The seasons turned, again and again, from spring to summer to autumn to winter, although all of them appeared identical in Mor Ardain. Each change only meant a change in temperature and the amount of relentless sunshine beating down on their Titan’s dying body.

The days rarely differed in their monantany. Paperwork, fieldwork (albeit far less often), training… Mòrag’s days dragged through the same routine. Despite the pride that she took in serving her country, that she quietly told herself she _had_ to feel, again and again, and the joy she had in defending her family… it was tiresome.

Thus, the quiet moments that she could seize with Brighid - late nights in the field, or a restless night in each other’s rooms, reading or discussing or simply _being_ in the presence of each other - soon came to be those which Mòrag treasured the most. Brighid always seemed to have a new suggestion up her (figurative) sleeve, a new idea or novel that had captured her attention, or even a new self-care product for Mòrag to try.

Tonight, she found herself in Brighid’s room, sitting on the chair at her vanity as Brighid carefully peered at her hair.

“You’ve been using that Treesap Conditioner I gave you for your birthday, I see,” Brighid said, approval and warmth in her voice. “I’m glad. We’ll get you to buy your own supply yet.”

“Er… can you really tell?”

“Of course.” Brighid’s fingers brushed the ends of her hair, right at the nape of her neck. Mòrag froze and had to force her body to slacken and relax. Brighid would not harm her. Even if they weren’t… partners, and as close as they were, Brighid was her Blade. A Blade harming their Driver would bring no benefit to them whatsoever.

She hated that she simply couldn’t _trust._ It was still so difficult to, when she had spent her entire life ensuring that others could trust _her,_ that she could handle any matter without the assistance of others. It had to have been a bit over six years now, her and Brighid, and it was still a struggle to remember.

“Did you hear a word of what I said?” came Brighid’s voice. Where Mòrag would have expected irritation from any other person, all she could hear was fond amusement.

“I didn’t. Apologies.” Mòrag glanced away to the various glass bottles and make-up tools neatly organised on Brighid’s desk. “Would you mind repeating?”

“Of course not.” Brighid let go of her hair. “I was merely complimenting your hair. How silky and alive it now appears. Why, I still remember that day when we first met. Your hair, your face…” Her next words were solemn. “You looked far older than the teenager you were. Even though I had only just been brought into existence… even I knew that no one so young should have looked so exhausted.”

“...Did I, now?” Mòrag let out an amused chuckle that sounded harsh to her own ears. “I… I hadn’t yet learnt the importance of looking after myself. I was convinced that Mor Ardain needed me as a soldier, not… as a human.”

“Hmm. Indeed.” Brighid’s hand rested on the desk next to her. “You’re still quite the overachiever, but I suspect I’ve reached the limit of what I can do.”

Mòrag smiled. “It’s part of who I am as a person, I’m afraid.” She grimaced and raised a hand to the back of her neck, feeling around until she touched her hair. “I _do_ need another haircut,” she mumbled under her breath.

“Oh? Do you believe so?” Brighid sat down on the bed close to where Mòrag was sitting on the chair, regally crossing one leg over the other and holding her knee in her hands. “I think it rather suits you.”

“...Perhaps, but… it is hardly ideal for combat, is it?”

“There are these _wonderful_ inventions,” Brighid droned, “called hair ties. Created for the exact purpose of pulling up long hair so that it doesn’t interfere with daily tasks.” She smirked - _smirked!_ The gall! “Perhaps my dear lady hasn’t yet heard of them?”

“O-of course I have! I just—” Mòrag blinked. “And as though _you_ are one to talk! Your hair goes to your waist!”

“Well, it _is_ beautiful, is it not?” She put her hand under a large section of her hair and flipped it, still smiling more than a little smugly. “And, besides, anything that I put on it tends to be rather combustible. I have yet to find any hair accessories that don’t catch on fire within the minute.”

“Ah… well.” Mòrag’s hand twitched yet again for the tip of a helmet that wasn’t on her head. “That hardly sounds like a problem _I’ve_ caused.”

“Heh.” Brighid’s smile dimmed slightly. “But I digress. If you truly wish to cut it, I will not stop you, but… it won’t be difficult to find methods where you can have it long and _not_ hinder you during combat.”

“I don’t think I’d want it as long as yours.” Even the mere thought made Mòrag shudder. Imagining the amount of hair care products she’d have to pour onto it, not even mentioning how _odd_ it would look on her… she’d gone her entire life with it having never gone past her shoulders, and that was one thing she was more than happy to keep constant. “But…”

Any time she had cut it herself in the past, it’d been ragged slashes with a knife, or _maybe_ scissors if she was feeling particularly kind to herself. Indeed, this was the longest she'd ever allowed it to be. She had never seen any point in keeping it neat or presentable, not when she constantly had a helmet or some form of head armour on her during her working hours. Why waste time and effort on a part of her nobody would see or care about, when she could expend that energy into more important matters instead?

But she’d been looking at it all wrong, hadn’t she? Sometimes, you could do things for _yourself,_ without having to justify your reasons why. It wasn’t wrong to take care of yourself.

“I wouldn’t be adverse to a _bit_ of length,” Mòrag continued quietly. She hovered her hand around the top of her collarbone. “Perhaps… around here.”

“I think that would look wonderful on you,” Brighid said. Mòrag could not sense a hint of sarcasm or falseness in her words. She looked… almost proud. “Would you mind if I trimmed off the dead ends and tidied it up?”

“What?”

“I doubt you’ve seen it for yourself, but it _is_ rather… lop-sided.” Brighid moved her head to the side slightly. “It’s a good bit longer on the right side than on the left. I suspect you didn’t look in a mirror?”

“Ah… well. I don’t own one in my quarters, that is true.”

“Just as I thought.” Brighid looked at her dead-on. Even with her eyes ever-shut, as they always were, the intensity of her gaze made Mòrag want to squirm on her seat. “You don’t have to, of course. Indeed, it would be an honour. I… I would like to do this much for you.”

“‘This much’?” Mòrag bursted out. “Brighid, you do _more_ than enough for me as it is! Please do not _ever_ doubt that. If I have ever—”

Brighid’s hand over her own cut off the rest of her words into stammers of nothing. Brighid just smiled. “I know, Mòrag. I promise.”

_“Good.”_ Mòrag let out a tired breath through his nose. “If you didn’t…”

“Well, I do, so you needn’t fret. Now sit up straight.”

Mòrag followed her instructions and watched Brighid in the mirror as she _hmmed_ and _ahhed_ at Mòrag’s hair. She flicked a flame to life on her fingertips, using it to improve her visibility. Sudden amazement hit Mòrag at the fact that _that_ had been her first thought, and not the terrifying thought that Brighid would scorch her hair. She had always prided herself on being alert and attentive; when had she begun to trust Brighid this much, that she would never bring harm to her?

Instead of being horrified at herself, though, all she felt was warm inside.

“Ah - no make-up,” Mòrag blurted out. “Not for now. Or ever, probably. Skincare products are as far as I wish to push it.”

“Oh, but of course.” Brighid stood back to her full height. “I'm not asking you to embrace traditional femininity and to start wearing little frilly pink dresses and cake yourself in make-up," Brighid said. "All I am asking is for you to look after yourself. To see that you are already taking steps towards that… it fills my heart with joy."

"It's rather damning, is it not?" Mòrag sat on the chair, back ram-rod straight, watching as Brighid's hand grabbed the scissors from the desk. Her eyes flickered to the mirror and watched Brighid's movements. "And saddening, to an extent, that even basic self-care is often seen as frivolous and feminine. That, even if it _were_ feminine, that being so is a bad thing in and of itself." That Mòrag had been so ingrained in such a culture that she hasn't even _realised,_ not until Brighid's gentle support… most of that was a discussion more suitable for another day, but it was a comfort to realise that it _wasn't_ pathetic to take care of herself. Even if her first instinct was still to work, work, _work,_ that was a matter that she could - and would - improve on.

"Mhmm. It is indeed." Brighid swept up the loose ends of Mòrag's hair into a loose fist. Mòrag involuntarily shivered. "I've been practicing it myself for centuries, now, to the point where it becomes natural even if I don't _remember_ having done so… but you don't have that same experience."

"You know that about yourself for certain?"

Brighid frowned at Mòrag's hair. "According to my journal, that is. It's a lesson my past selves had repeatedly written to the future selves that would read it. That if I weren't to look out for myself, then I would be miserable. And a Blade like that is of no use to their Driver."

"I should hope you don't do so _only_ for your Driver," Mòrag said, her voice like steel.

There was a small pause, right before a minute wrinkling around Brighid's eyes along with a tender smile. "Don't you worry. I do it for myself as well. Your concern, however, is greatly appreciated."

"Thank you."

The scissors gently sniped between open and closed behind Mòrag’s neck, the noise loud in her ears. She didn’t feel even a prickle of panic or fear.

“You know,” Brighid said suddenly. “I believe you and I will have a beautiful relationship together.”

Mòrag chuckled. “You say that as though we don’t already. Every day with you is a joy, Brighid.”

For a few seconds, there was silence. Mòrag watched Brighid scrunch her eyes together, throat working. Were she anyone else, Mòrag would have said that she looked almost moved to tears. Eventually, came her choked voice: “And I feel the same, Mòrag.”

As Brighid got to work on her hair, Mòrag closed her eyes and had to resist the urge to slack against the chair’s back. She couldn’t remember the last time - if such a time had ever existed - where she’d felt so at-peace. _Content._ Both with herself and with the wider world.

Perhaps, even after becoming the Special Inquisitor, the purpose of her life still eluded her. Why was she born? Why was _anyone_ born?

Maybe… for now, it was okay to not know. To not have an answer for her own life. She was still young. There was no need to squander what she _did_ have now to sneak an answer that may not even exist. Her job, the people closest to her, the pride in serving her country and citizens… and herself and Brighid. And she needn’t sacrifice her own health and happiness for anyone else.

For now, maybe that was enough.

When Brighid was done, she laid the scissors on the table and picked up her hand mirror, carefully positioning it so that Mòrag could see the back of her own neck. “Well? How does it look?”

Mòrag raised a hand and brushed it over the ends, marvelling at how clean and smooth they now felt. Brighid had only taken an inch off, if even that much. She had done a marvellous job indeed. There were no dead-ends nor awkward knots. It looked… far better than she could have even imagined her hair to look. Her past teenage self would have been aghast.

“It looks wonderful,” she said. _“Thank you,_ Brighid.”

Brighid smiled. “Anything for you, my dear Mòrag.”

**Author's Note:**

> [gently breakdances] [here's my twitter!](https://twitter.com/greenpiggles)
> 
> if you enjoyed the fic please consider leaving a kudos and/or comment!! thanks so much, and have a lovely day~ <3


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